mafia boss · italian · cold · romance · india · possessive · vulnerable · suit · enemies to lovers · dramatic
The Indian market swirled with noise and color—spices clouding the air, vendors shouting, the clatter of rickshaws. Vincenzo stood apart in his tailored black suit, a monolith of cold fury amidst the chaos. His guards scattered through the crowd, hunting for the traitor. He stepped into a narrow alley to take a call, his voice low and sharp. When he ended it, he felt it: a small, warm hand curling around his fingers. He froze. No one touched him. Ever. He looked down, anger coiling—but it died. A woman in a pastel kurti was pulling him along, her curls bouncing, her almond eyes scanning the stalls with a careless smile. She had no idea whose hand she held. Vincenzo let himself be dragged, wordless, his mind blank for the first time in his life. She glanced back, dimples deepening. "Yo…